Bolt Hole of Domesticity
by Claire M C
Summary: Molly continues to help Sherlock after his plan. (Post "Reichenbach Fall" 2x03 finale)
1. Chapter 1

Bolt Hole of Domesticity  
Rating: T  
Spoilers: Series 2 Finale "The Reichenbach Fall"  
Summary: Molly continues to help Sherlock with his plan.  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffatt and the BBC . This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

* * *

The phone had dinged earlier that morning indicating a message received. It was simple, two words, the two I'd been dreading seeing since I'd left the hospital the previous night.

_It's time – SH_

I willed myself to appear normal and inconspicuous as I left the safety of my lab and made my way to the main floor to give Dr Harris the blood analysis she'd requested. A scream just as I had reached the main doors alerted me to what had happened and my stomach twisted sickeningly inside.

I raced to the door in time to see the stretcher wheeled hastily passed me and through to one of the emergency rooms. John arrived in a few moments later, as white as a ghost, eyes unseeing and unfocused. A strange man was with him, helping him stay upright.

"He's banged his head off the road," the man told one of the nurses who took him aside for assessment.

"Molly," he spied me, and brushed and rubbed his eyes furiously.

"John?" I swallowed, scared I'd say something stupid. I followed him to the bed where he sat down heavily before trying to stand up again.

"No, you shouldn't be standing, John, you're not well," I told him forcefully.

"Sherlock," he said blearily, tears in his eyes, "he… Oh God, Molly. He said….the blood, Molly, the blood, it's everywhere."

I sent an alarmed look towards the doors Sherlock had just been pushed through and placed what I hoped was a comforting hand on John's shoulder.

"I-It's okay, John," he looked at me, devoid of any expression and I flushed feeling like a fool, "I mean, if they can save him, they will. But you, you have to let them take care of you too."

"Molly," he grabbed my wrist and I stared down at him, "can you, can you find out what's going on?"

"They'll tell you, John. I'll make sure of it," I reassured him and glanced at the nurse silently communicating with her to follow me out.

"Dr Watson's suffered a blow to the head and seems quite groggy. Make sure he stays overnight for observation."

"Of course," she replied before disappearing back behind the curtain to see to John.

I couldn't stomach seeing Sherlock, the image of his bloodied body as he'd been rushed passed me was enough. Like a coward, I turned on my heels and practically ran back to the comforting morgue waiting, and dreading, the phone call I knew would come.

In less than half an hour I'd received the call from Dr Stamforde and Sherlock Holmes' lifeless body was wheeled down. One of the orderlies stared at me and looked like he was going to say something but then thought better of it. Most of the staff, it seemed, knew of my…attachment to Sherlock.

I stood staring at the covered form for a good five minutes before I gathered the courage to pull back the sheet. The shock of seeing him there, lying on the cold metal bench was too much. A choked sob escaped and I couldn't stop shaking as I stepped back stumbling against the counter.

It took me a few seconds to pull myself together and remind myself that despite appearances, Sherlock Holmes was not dead. He'd had a plan and it would work. Sherlock's plans always worked. I pulled out the syringe in my left pocket and pushed it into his left bicep.

But I couldn't leave him to wake up with sticky blood matting his hair and crusting against his skin, which is why I decided to clean it off. It was a good distraction and helped calm me down.

He's so pretty. A ridiculous thing to say about a man and I knew he'd cut me to the quick if he ever heard me, but there are plenty of women who would kill for some of his features. Dark eyelashes resting against perfectly pale skin, framed by perfectly shaped dark arches. I paid special attention to his eyes, they've always fascinated me. He has cheekbones that Angelina Jolie would envy and his mouth… such a wonderful cupid's bow… those lips that spewed such amazing and, sometimes, hurtful words were…just perfect.

Is it wrong of me to have wished for some sort of imperfection? Some birthmark or anomaly I would have missed on the normal day-to-day interaction? Instead of a hidden mole or disfigured limbs, all I could find was pristine alabaster skin unmarred by any discolouration of foreign body. How unfair.

His skin beneath my fingertips was slightly warmer than a dead man's should be and I removed them quickly. I could just imagine him suddenly sitting up and glaring accusingly at me for having the audacity to touch him.

I pushed the bowl aside, satisfied all sticky substances have been removed, and patted him dry with a towel. I searched for a pulse and couldn't stop the grin spreading across my face as I detected it, weak, but there. He would be up and about in an hour or so.

The other body lay motionless in a drawer a few feet away. Same height, same weight, same general features. He was lucky really. This John Doe would get a proper burial and a proper funeral. True it wouldn't be for _him_, but it was better than what he would have gotten. I tried to comfort myself with that thought as I busied myself with finishing Sherlock's paperwork.

The near noiseless swinging of the mortuary doors grabbed my attention and I spun around, standing in front of Sherlock's body, obscuring him from view of this intruder.

"Can I help you?"

He smiled tightly, carefully removing his gloves and placing them on the umbrella handle in his right hand. Then I remembered. That man, the one who brought Sherlock to identify the naked body of Irene Adler.

"Miss Hooper."

"Dr Hooper actually," I don't know why I feel the need to assert myself with this man, who looked like he just walked in from the nineteenth century, and it seemed he wasn't too pleased with it either.

"Yes, well, _Dr_ Hooper. I wonder if you might show me the body of Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm sorry, I don't…who are you exactly?"

"Ah, I see my brother has been remiss once again."

"B-brother?"

"Mycroft Holmes." He smiled coldly again, and I suddenly saw the resemblance in the eyes, like he was barely managing to control his irritation with me.

I had the ridiculous urge to curtsey to him as he held out his hand to me, but I managed to quell it and his head moved to the side observing his brother behind me. He silently moved towards him, his umbrella tapping hauntingly against the floor and I swallowed my nervousness, knowing there was no way any brother of Sherlock Holmes' could be as easily fooled as us mere mortals. His eyes flicked over his brother's body and his posture suddenly relaxed.

"Please leave us alone for a few minutes," his dismissive voice was reminiscent of his brother but he was not Sherlock and I was not about to chased out my mortuary by him.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think that's-"

"I can assure you Miss," he paused the icy smile returning as he focused his attention on me again, "forgive me, _Dr_ Hooper, I have no intention of making off with my brother's body in the middle of the day. You may wait outside if you wish. I will not steal him away from you."

He brushed me aside without a backward glance and I could feel the heat rising up from my neck to the roots of my hair. I could protest further but he was Sherlock's brother, I had no good reason to stop him. He'd already seen him so there wasn't much more damage that could be done, I reasoned to myself as I waited outside. After ten minutes of pacing and chewing my fingernails to stubs, I decided I'd had enough.

As I walked back into the morgue I was aware of two things. One, Mycroft Holmes was speaking, and two, Sherlock Holmes was answering him! He was sitting up with his back to me, appearing to button up a shirt that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, but it was definitely him.

The elder brother turned in my direction, walking out of the morgue.

"And for God's sake, Sherlock, try not to resurrect yourself before it's safe to do so."

"Your sibling concern is truly touching, Mycroft!" Sherlock called over his shoulder without looking up from his task.

Mycroft looked irritated but inclined his head in my direction as he passed. "Dr Hooper."

And with that I was left alone with the supposedly dead Sherlock Holmes. I approached him carefully, like I was afraid he might turn into dust if I moved too quickly. I rounded him and saw his face, his hair, his eyes, his mouth. Ohhhh.

"I…Can I just," I threw myself at him before I could think about it and change my mind. I heard the rush of air escaping from his lungs at the unexpected pressure but I didn't really care. It was such a relief to see him awake and okay.

He stiffened as I continued to hug him, until I felt a hand tap my shoulder uncertainly. I almost expect him to say 'there, there.' But he didn't. It was odd, almost like he'd never hugged anyone before. Which is ridiculous really, I'm sure he's hugged lots of people.

"Molly," his voice rumbled against my neck, "should I take this assault to mean you're attempting to rectify the fact that my plan worked by depriving me of oxygen?"

"What?, oh," I pulled back and moved away from him and his confused gaze, "Yes, yes, I mean no, I mean," I took a breath and sent him a shaky smile, "I'm just glad you're awake. Your plan worked."

"Of course it did," he frowned as if there was never going to be any other outcome and I'd lost what was left of my mind.

"Right. So, your brother knows what happened?"

"Obviously. I needed him to take care of the CCTV cameras."

"Oh, of course."

"Now that Mycroft has identified the body you can tag _him_ and keep him out of sight," he shot a brief gaze towards John Doe. "I will rendezvous with you outside your house in forty minutes."

"Wait, I have the rest of my shift…" I trailed off as he rolled his eyes at me, zipping up a dark hoody.

"Molly, I've just jumped off the roof and you've completed my autopsy. I'm sure Stamford won't object to you leaving early."

"Of, of course," I stammered and turned towards the office to make the phone call. I suddenly realised that I hadn't told him where I lived, but by the time I turned around he'd already disappeared. How does he manage to do that?


	2. Chapter 2

I was unaccountably nervous as I pushed the key into the lock. I knew Sherlock Holmes would be in my house and in the space of two minutes and would probably have performed an entire psychological evaluation on me just by walking from the front door to the kitchen. Ignoring my inward turmoil, I plastered a jovial smile on my face as I turned off the alarm before leading him down the hall towards the open plan kitchen. I turned, only to see his eyes narrow and his mouth thin as he looked around the room.

"This isn't your home."

"What?" I stared at him in shock. Of course it was my house I'd lived here for the past five years.

"You may live here, Molly, but this isn't…ah!" he grinned and nodded to himself as if he'd solved some sort of puzzle. "This is your dead father's house."

"He left it to me," I replied numbly. I sometimes forget how blunt Sherlock can be.

"But you still don't view it as yours. Not really." He looked at me briefly as he waltzed around the room, looking in cupboards, picking up magazines and unopened envelopes, twisting them around and sniffing the occasional one. "The walls haven't been painted in, oh, I'd say, at least six years, the same with the carpets, and the furniture is well worn but of high quality. The colour scheme is decidedly masculine, and _your_ tastes are, without doubt, some of the most obviously girly, garish styles I've ever seen." I was offended but too much in awe of him to protest.

"Your father left you this house to live in but you don't think of it as yours. You still think it's his and that's why you haven't changed anything in it. Am I wrong?" he asks a wolfish grin on his face.

"No," I twisted my hands together, "you're right. It just doesn't feel like, well mine."

"Would you like me to continue?"

"Not really," I quickly replied making a bee line for the lounge. He followed me like my shadow, his eyes quickly spanning the bookshelves and dark furniture in the coffee coloured room.

"Your father was a doctor," he continued, clearly ignoring my preferences, "paediatrics judging by the medical texts. This isn't your childhood home of course, although your father owned this place for a number of years before his death, even while he was still in practice."

He paced up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back. I was suddenly reminded of that time I got in trouble for kicking John Wilson in P3 and the principle marched in front of me for half an hour, lecturing about how unladylike it was to kick a fellow student.

I realised I was just an onlooker into the inner machinations of the great Sherlock Holmes' mind, but it's always fascinating to see it at work. Even at my own expense.

"Your father would never have been able to pay for a home like this in London along with one in the country which means only one thing."

He turned a curious smile towards me, a surprised glint in his eyes, and I felt a lot like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "You come from money, Molly Hooper."

I cleared my throat and opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. It was as if I had suddenly been struck mute. Not that it mattered, not when Sherlock decided to answer for me anyway.

"You're embarrassed by it," he declared, "Why is that?" he looked confused and I stared at him.

"I, I never said anything about being embarrassed about where I come from," I attempted to sound confident but I knew I'd only annoyed him.

"Oh, Molly. Why be so boring?" he sighed dramatically, and collapsed onto the sofa beside me. "You know I'm right. I've actually found something about you that interests me, why don't you just play along? Isn't this what you've always wanted?"

I gaped at him, eyes wide, mouth falling open in silent protest. He rolled his eyes and crossed his ankles.

"Clearly, you're wealthy enough to have the best fashion of every season, your hair and nails done every week and dine out every day. Instead, your clothes are uncoordinated, your shoes are…" he looked down at my feet and raised an eyebrow, "far too practical to be considered fashionable, you don't go to a salon above three times a year and you would prefer to eat baked beans on toast at home than dine out in a glitzy restaurant. Evidently, you don't want to draw attention to the fact that you are financially comfortable, the question is why?"

"Hungry?" I asked quickly, trying to change the topic, and I was surprised it seemed to work. My question was answered by a low grumbling in his stomach and I bit my bottom lip trying to stop the school-girl giggle from escaping.

He ate like a horse, wolfing down not only the pepperoni pizza, but bread, yoghurt, fruit, basically anything he could get his hands on. I remembered John saying he would do that after a case, would eat like a starving man and then sleep for practically days on end. Now, I got to see it firsthand.

He seemed deflated after satisfying his food craving and I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before what had happened would suddenly come crashing down around him, and by extension me. But I didn't want to think about it, all I wanted was to look after him and let him sleep.

"Well," I said brightly, a wide smile plastered across my face, "why don't I show you to your room?"

I walked out ahead of him and marched up the stairs, Sherlock following me. It suddenly hit me that he was walking _behind_ me. I swore I could feel my bum shaking like not-quite-set jelly. I should have let him go up before me. He was probably eye to eye with my flabby arse. Oh, sweet Lord.

My pace picked up and eventually I reached the top of the stairs that had never seemed so long in my entire life! He eyed me curiously but remained silent. He really did look tired, with dark circles forming under his eyes, and the usual brightness dulled with exhaustion. Not surprising, I reasoned. The man did just jump off the roof of a London city building and fake his own death. Who knew when he last slept before that?

"Your room is here," I opened the door to the spare room and he strode in as if he owned the place. His narrowed eyes took in every little detail, and I felt unaccountably nervous, even though I knew there was nothing wrong with the room. It was a nice spare room, neutral colouring and with clean floral bedspreads, though perhaps a little on the small side.

"It will suffice."

"Good, I'm, I'm glad. The bathroom is next door, and there are fresh towels in the cupboard." His gaze focused on me again, his left hand tapping absently against his thigh in irritation. "Well, um, I'll leave you then. If you need anything, my room is the second door on the left."

"Why would I need anything from your room?"

"No, I'm just saying, if you need me for…anything," his forehead crinkled in confusion, and I could practically see the wheels in his head turning. I'd already served my purpose, I helped him 'die' and given him somewhere to stay, what else could he possibly need me for?

I felt my face flush with heat as my imagination went haywire imagining all the sordid ways Sherlock would envisage I think about needing him in a bedroom.

He opened his mouth to say something but I quickly cut in before he could say anything particularly caustic.

"I don't expect you to show up at my door in the middle of the night, Sherlock," I gave a strangled laugh and his right eyebrow rose, "it's just a thing people say t-to people who stay with them."

"They do?"

"Of course," I replied gaining a little confidence, "in case a visitor needs sheets, or towels, or a-a toothbrush."

"Molly?" he interrupted me and looked a little uncertain. "Should I," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "should I 'thank you' now?"

I stared at him for a moment. It always amazed me how ignorant Sherlock could be when it came to social conventions. I decided to let him off easy and shook my head.

"No, Sherlock. You don't have to thank me. You don't ever need to thank me… not unless you mean it." _And_ _I'll be able to tell when you don't_, I added silently.

Closing the door to leave him alone with his thoughts and whatever plans he was concocting, I was stopped by the sound of my name on his lips.

"Molly."

"Yes?"

He seemed frozen for a second, and then his head tilted ever so slightly to one side and he regarded me with that genuine sincerity I last saw the night before his 'death.'

"Thank you."

I was too overwhelmed to say anything, so I just nodded my head and shut the door quietly behind me. I crossed over to my room and collapsed onto the bed, my arm thrown over my face.

Sherlock Holmes was currently living in my house, under the same roof, a few feet from my bedroom. And, despite the fact that my brain knew he saw me as nothing more than a tool in his grand plans, everything else was ridiculously giddy at having my own living Greek Adonis as a roommate. It had the potential to be a dream come true or…more than likely in my case, a nightmare!


End file.
